Around my house, the holidays tend to involve some Black Christmas-level drama. 

Indy went to Marion’s bar in Nepal six days before Christmas, two years ago. 

Let me tell you something.  

Nothing puts you in the Christmas spirit like planning a funeral. 

You know, the funeral home was decorated for Christmas. 

That was weird. 

People are dead, here, guys. I don’t think anyone’s asking why you don’t have a motion-triggered singing Santa on the fireplace mantel. 

Never one to be left out, Willie is now trying her hand at decimating Christmas. 

Willie hasn’t gone to Marion’s bar in Nepal. 

But I’m certain she’ll put me there. 

Willie has dementia. 

My siblings and I pay her bills. Administer her medications. Make sure she has food. 

But Willie — well. She still lives alone. She’s in a Pinochle league. She works at the reception desk at the Temple of Doom. Online shops like she was born to it. 

She also rideshares everywhere. 

“I’d never,” Willie says, “impose on my children.” 

I was setting up her medications and searching her mail piles for that check she keeps throwing away when she said that. 

Willie’s use of ridesharing apps is both not my favorite thing and a source of pride. Willie is 80. But Willie works tech with the deft of a millennial.  

Willie’s rideshare use reminds me of Willie’s mother, who lived with us.  

She didn’t drive. A few times a year she’d call a cab to take her to the doctor. 

Her cab driver was always the same guy. He told her his roommate was on Fame. 

I don’t know how true that was. But it’s a good story. 

Hey — do you guys, when you’re sweeping, do you guys tap the broom handle on the floor and say, “Right here is where you start paying. In sweat.”? 

Because I do. Like, all the time.  

Anyway, last week, I arrived home in the cold dark of evening. Snow was falling. I took in the snow and Christmas lights and sighed. I could do this. I could be happy at this, my favorite time of year. I could think of Indy’s death a little less. 

I took a hot shower. Put on PJs and my brand-new leg warmers — Fame, remember? My husband poured me a glass of wine. 

That was when my phone rang. 

It was Willie’s number.  

Answering is always dicey.  

For example, Willie once called me on a chilly November night, just as I sat down to family dinner. 

“We need to move Indy to assisted living. I can’t live like this anymore.” 
 
Um, live like what anymore? 

“He’s bedridden,” Willie said. “He’s been bedridden for four days.”  

I’m sorry. Indy has been bedridden for four days and you’re just telling someone now? 

“I didn’t want to bother anyone,” Willie said. “Can you move him tomorrow?” 

Because that’s how that works. 

But sometimes, Willie’s phone calls go like the one I took a couple of years ago.  

“Where is your aunt?” Willie demanded, meaning her sister. “I’ve been calling and calling and she’s not answering. Where is she?!” 

I mean, given that my aunt’s own husband was in the hospital, MapQuesting his trip to Marion’s bar in Nepal just four months after Indy, I was thinking she had more important things to do than take Willie’s call. 

Also, yeah. Call me. To locate your sister. Let me pull up the daily log of my aunt’s activities because I really do follow her around all day. Everyone knows professional aunt minders are rich. 

So as my leg warmers chased away the cold, and the wine glinted a merry red in its glass, and snowflakes drifted on the wind, I considered letting the call go to voicemail. 

Truly I did. 

But I answered it. 

“This is the Hatboro Police,” the caller said. 

Huh. Definitely should have sent it to voicemail. They would have called my brother next and whatever was happening would have been his problem. 

“Is she OK?” I asked.  

Calmly.  

Because I wasn’t upset.  

I knew this day was coming. 

That it came at Christmas is the second worst gift I have ever received. 

Um, third. Because that boyfriend who got me nothing when I bought him the leather jacket he eyed that day in the mall? Dude. 

That’s how bad a boyfriend you were. Your lack of a gift rates only second to Indy dying and above the police calling me about Willie at Christmas. 

Also, you looked ridiculous in that jacket. Did you think you were in Color Me Badd? Because you weren’t, you know. You just weren’t. 

The police officer found Willie standing on the corner of Byberry and Davisville roads. She walked there from her nail salon in downtown Hatboro. 

In the dark. 

In the cold. 

In black pants and a black coat. 

Without her walker. 

When I asked Willie why she walked home from her nail salon, she said she didn’t want to wait for a rideshare and didn’t want to trouble anyone. 

Willie. I had my leg warmers on. Leg warmers! 

With, as I write this, two weeks until Christmas, my siblings and I are scrambling to move Willie to a higher level of care. In fact, by the time you read this, she should be all moved in. 

Um, do you guys want to tell Willie? Because we sure don’t. 

I — I take it back. This is definitely the second worst Christmas gift. Where is that old boyfriend, that leather jacket? I need them. 

I could use a good laugh.